


(Never) Pretend that the Stone Is Bread

by the_rck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captivity, Clothing Kink, Everybody lies, Forced to enjoy it, M/M, Mind Games, Sexual Slavery, Threats of Violence, Underwear Kink, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26037811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rck/pseuds/the_rck
Summary: "Act like you want me," Clint had said the first time after Loki won. "I want you, and you're not valuable for anything the Boss wants."Phil had flinched from the dragging touch of Clint's thumb crossing Phil's throat."If I don't control you, you'll die, so Iwillbe brutal if I have to." Clint's thumb pressed a little harder against Phil's Adam's apple. "I will. I won't regret it. I won't even hate it." He'd leaned down so that Phil felt Clint's breath against his ear. "I'm a sniper. I'm good at it. You understand."Phil had closed his eyes because he did understand.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	(Never) Pretend that the Stone Is Bread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mswhich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mswhich/gifts).



> Contains: amoral Clint, non-sexual references to Loki, non-sexual references to Natasha, references to HYDRA being good at killing people (including those who work for Loki), brief murder fantasies
> 
> Title from Amy Levy's poem, "Epitaph." I added the parentheses.

Phil belonged to Clint, and Clint belonged to Loki. Loki was the only person really pleased with that, but Phil thought that Clint was a lot less bothered by it than he ought to be.

"If I thought I could win," Clint had said more than once, "I'd totally fight." He always shrugged and then leaned in to kiss Phil. "I can't, so I don't. I survive. You survive. Nat survives."

Phil knew, now, not to turn away from those kisses. He didn't know how much of Clint's cruelty was Clint and how much was Loki's influence. Really, it didn't matter much because Clint really couldn't defeat Loki.

Five years after the Invasion, HYDRA posed the biggest challenge to Loki's rule. They'd ripped out of SHIELD's soon-to-be-corpse like one of the chest-bursting monsters from the Aliens movies and savaged Loki's forces.

There were other armies still out there, other factions resisting, but mostly it was Loki or HYDRA. Neither of them willingly tolerated rivals.

Clint had always been a pragmatist. He'd take Loki over HYDRA any time.

Phil couldn't accept a world ruled by either, so Clint would never let Phil go free. Phil had tried lying. Phil had tried bargaining. Phil had tried subterfuge. When that failed, too, he'd settled for patience. Eventually, he'd have a chance to do something useful again, something more than passing along scraps of information.

Loki probably knew. He simply wouldn't fuss about it as long as Clint's usefulness outweighed whatever inconvenience Phil caused. As far as Phil could tell, Loki thought it was funny.

Loki really wasn't good at any sort of cold war.

Clint definitely knew. He just didn't care. He wouldn't mind working for SHIELD again if Phil could resurrect it. Clint didn't expect it to happen, and he wasn't going to help Phil with it, but he'd be on board to switch sides.

Clint simply wasn't going to help because Phil didn't have anything Clint wanted that Clint couldn't take by force.

"Act like you want me," Clint had said the first time after Loki won. "I want you, and you're not valuable for anything the Boss wants."

Phil had flinched from the dragging touch of Clint's thumb crossing Phil's throat.

"If I don't control you, you'll die, so I _will_ be brutal if I have to." Clint's thumb pressed a little harder against Phil's Adam's apple. "I will. I won't regret it. I won't even hate it." He'd leaned down so that Phil felt Clint's breath against his ear. "I'm a sniper. I'm good at it. You understand."

Phil had closed his eyes because he did understand.

Clint liked being able to decide when terrible things happened to people. Clint liked controlling how bad those things were. Clint liked watching and knowing that he _could_ hurt someone.

Part of knowing that he could was knowing that he would. Without hesitation. Clint was a stalker and a killer. SHIELD had always known that. It just hadn't mattered because he worked for them. As long as he wasn't doing anything extracurricular, he was exactly what they needed for certain jobs.

Clint might-- probably even did-- love Phil, but neither of them ever pretended that he didn't get off on forcing Phil to say yes. If Phil struggled with that yes, Clint got to watch Phil admit his own lack of power. It was, Clint said, a lot like watching a gutshot target realizing that help wasn't coming in time.

If Phil didn't struggle, Clint still got to fuck him. Clint still got to touch him and play with him. On those occasions, Clint's focus on Phil's body and Phil's surrender lasted longer.

Phil took three weeks to understand that Clint was gentler after a successful mission. Phil needed longer to learn how to deal with Clint after unsatisfying missions. Those nights, if Phil couldn't offer a tempting enough briar patch-- Those nights, getting fucked raw was the kindest fate Phil could expect.

Tonight, Clint was restless. Clint had been restless for days.

Phil thought it had something to do with that big off-planet excursion Loki was planning, the one Phil wasn't supposed to know about. Loki was predictable like that; he kept Clint close to home when major preparations were underway.

Having confirmation of that was useful. It wouldn't do anything to make Phil's next week easier, but it was useful information. He'd pass it along as soon as he could. It wasn't important enough to risk Natasha. Nothing had been so far.

Phil didn't think anything ever would be.

Natasha would choose her own time for turning on Loki, probably not until after HYDRA had burned. She was even more patient than Phil was.

Clint probably knew that. Loki almost certainly didn't. Loki might not take Phil seriously, but he understood the Black Widow as a genuine threat. Loki just thought that Natasha was like Clint, a lethal weapon content to be used.

"Phil." Clint didn't have to say anything else to have Phil's full attention. Clint crooked a finger and beckoned.

Phil studied Clint and tried to decide whether he was expected to kneel or to sit beside Clint on the couch. Possibly it didn't matter because Clint wanted Phil to be wrong.

That fit with Clint's level of frustration, so Phil nodded and loosened his tie as he took a seat on the couch. There wasn't much point in pretending that he didn't already know there wasn't a right choice.

Clint snorted and jabbed an elbow into Phil's side. "Stand up. Strip. Give me a show."

Phil considered the merits of his tie as a garrote. As he always did, he concluded that killing Clint wouldn't actually help. He let that decision show in his face and in his body language. Phil could try. Phil might succeed. He simply wasn't desperate enough to gamble.

Phil was pretty sure that Clint got off on that part of things, too.

Clint's hand wrapped around Phil's wrist and squeezed. "If you try and fail, I'll break your left wrist."

Phil went completely still for a moment. "I'll bear that in mind," he said as mildly as he could. He tugged his arm free, pushed up the sleeve of his jacket, and started unbuttoning his cuff.

 _Don't fail_ wasn't anything like the same as _don't try_. Maybe Clint wanted Phil to kill him; maybe Clint just wanted to see how close they could get to fire before one of them got burned. 

Phil hoped that Clint hadn't started needling Loki. Eventually, Clint would misjudge that, and he and Phil would both die.

Phil put that aside to consider later.

Phil stood and removed his jacket. He shook it out then laid it over the back of the couch. He removed his tie slowly and put it next to the jacket. He gave each button on his shirt a few seconds of attention.

"You should be glad I dress you well," Clint said.

Phil's eyes met Clint's. Phil raised his eyebrows. "Because you dress me for _my_ preferences." He made the words as dry as he could. "Because you don't enjoy unwrapping me."

The corners of Clint's mouth twitched upward. "That's a bonus," he said. He waved a hand. "You wouldn't look like you in different clothes."

Phil put his shirt on top of his tie. His hands moved to his belt. He kept his eyes on Clint's face, trying to judge what Clint was thinking. Phil considered asking. He considered whether any words he might come up with could ameliorate what Clint was planning.

As Phil opened his fly, he concluded that it wasn't worth trying, not with Clint in the mood he was in. Whatever was coming would be exhausting and, probably, both humiliating and painful, but Clint hadn't ever permanently damaged him, no broken bones or dislocated joints or even scars.

Bruises, though-- There had been a lot of those. Clint used bruises to mark Phil as owned when Phil started to forget, but Clint didn't choose to go farther.

Phil had buried his terror that Clint's restraint was only due to a completely reasonable fear that Natasha might take steps if Clint crossed some hidden line.

Natasha wasn't immortal. Natasha spent a lot of time in the field. Natasha also wasn't going to burn Phil's cover without a powerful reason. She assumed that Phil could endure anything that she could, and Natasha had endured the Red Room.

Harsher violence was always there as an underlying possibility, however, if Phil tried to escape, if Phil attacked anyone, if Phil was caught at sabotage or passing information, if Phil was disrespectful in the wrong place or in front of the wrong people.

Natasha would view that violence as something that Phil had chosen and earned; Phil wasn't sure she'd be wrong.

Phil stepped out of his trousers. He shook them out and folded them. They went on top of his other clothing. He straightened and stood in front of Clint in an undershirt, boxers, and dark socks.

"Socks first," Clint said.

Phil balanced carefully on one foot to strip the sock from the other. He let himself wobble a little and inhaled sharply as if he was actually worried he might fall. He doubted Clint bought it, but he also knew that Clint would enjoy it anyway.

Clint liked the idea that Phil's life consisted entirely of juggling naked razor blades; Phil would have preferred to pretend that it didn't, but at least half of those razor blades were Clint-- his temper, his desire, his protection, his--

Working for Loki hadn't made Clint a better human being.

Phil sometimes convinced himself that most of that was the Sceptre's echoes. Phil needed that at times like this.

After Phil removed his second sock, Clint said, "Shirt. I want to see your chest."

Phil was more surprised that Clint bothered to say it than he was that Clint wanted it. Phil pulled his undershirt over his head. He tossed it on top of his trousers. Then he stood and let Clint run his eyes over each of his scars.

Phil knew he still looked good because he put a lot of time into it, partly because he needed Clint to keep wanting him and partly because he wanted to be ready, physically, for whatever shit was rolling down the creek at them. Phil wasn't fighting fit-- his combat reflexes had decayed with disuse-- but he could swim miles.

Swimming laps and playing handball were less threatening to certain paranoid and not-Clint people than anything involving sparring or targets was ever likely to be. Clint still vocally regretted that he couldn't teach Phil all about the proper way to draw a bow. "It's not," Clint had said more than once, "as if you could carry a bow and quiver without everyone knowing it."

Clint never said anything about Phil's collection of tiny, hard, rubber balls. He never commented on the glass bits and pieces that Phil acquired for aquariums that would never be completed or on Phil's deep and abiding interest in fancy go sets.

A sweatband didn't make a great sling, but no one was ever going to ask why Phil had one in his pocket.

Phil hoped that the things that made Clint want to keep him alive weren't entirely dependent on his physical features. His mind was going to last longer than his knees were. Or his hair. Or, well...

"Keep the boxers," Clint said as he patted the couch next to him. "It's dirtier when I feel you up with those on."

Phil had offered, once and half-jokingly, to wear tighty-whiteys instead. 

Clint's face had shown quite genuine horror at the idea. "That," he'd said very seriously, "would be _wrong_. I want Phil Coulson, not--" He'd waved a hand to indicate the vast masses of not-Phil-Coulson somewhere outside their apartment.

That evening had been... good, actually, as if Clint was trying to prove that he wanted Phil rather than just a pliant body to fuck.

Phil was still puzzled by the notion that being Phil Coulson required a particular type of underwear, but asking for clarification was too close to questioning the validity of Clint's kinks.

Phil really wished that Clint was in the mood for a beer or three before the sex. Clint would be more mellow, and Phil would be less-- 

Nothing was going to happen tonight that hadn't happened a hundred times before.

Phil managed a slight smile as he returned to Clint's side. He sat and curled up against Clint's side then pressed his face into Clint's chest. That grounded him a bit because he knew Clint's body and the scent of Clint's sweat. Phil put one hand on Clint's belly and moved it a little as if it mattered to him that Clint's abs were still all muscle.

Well, it did matter. Loki would have no use for Clint if Clint's body gave out. Clint would still be a hell of a sniper with a beer gut, but he'd have a much harder time getting to the right places for murdering Loki's enemies.

Clint's hand reached between Phil's legs and started working his cock through the fabric. Clint made a pleased sound as Phil started to get hard. Clint's fingers slipped through the slit in the front of the boxers.

Phil's breath hissed as skin touched skin. He didn't-- couldn't even for one moment-- forget how badly Clint's hands could hurt him, but Clint wanted to be wanted. 

Sometimes.

Right now.

Phil's hand clenched on the fabric of Clint's shirt, pulling in enough cloth that Clint couldn't miss the movement. "Clint--" Phil let his arousal into his voice.

"I'm the only one who can make you come apart like this." Clint sounded savagely satisfied by that. His thumb pressed hard against the slit of Phil's cock.

Phil made a choking sound that was half pain and half desire. Five years as Clint's fucktoy told him that Clint meant for Phil to enjoy this part.

Clint knew Phil's body well enough to know exactly where and how to touch him to get him hard and desperate. Clint's other hand came up through the leg of Phil's boxer and started caressing Phil's balls.

Phil kept his face pressed against Clint's chest as his breathing got faster. He knew that, if he looked up, if he met Clint's eyes now, he'd come a lot sooner than Clint wanted him to.

Clint might punish Phil for that, but he also might laugh. Sometimes he went one way, sometimes the other. Given Clint's recent mood, however, Phil thought current odds tilted heavily toward punishment.

"So easy." Clint's words were almost a croon. "Are you thinking about what my mouth could do?"

Phil hadn't been. He hadn't wanted to. He nodded anyway.

Clint's hand squeezed Phil's balls, stopping just short of causing pain. "I'm good to you," Clint said, and Phil heard in the words Clint's admission of the exact opposite. Clint knew it was a lie, and Clint enjoyed knowing that Phil had to accept it.

Clint was kinder than he had to be, but that wasn't at all the same thing.

Clint pushed Phil onto his back. Their eyes met, and Phil shuddered, pushing his hips up against Clint's hands. Clint gave a short laugh then bent to apply his mouth to Phil's still boxer-covered cock.

Phil felt the pressure before any wetness from Clint's saliva penetrated the cloth. Damp fabric clung to his skin and pulled in ways it hadn't when dry. Phil whimpered and tried to raise his hips again, but Clint's hands pinned him.

Phil considered the possibility that he could break Clint's neck. He knew-- they both knew-- he wouldn't try, but the choosing not to belonged entirely to Phil in a way that nothing else did.

Clint's tongue touched Phil's cock through the slit in his boxers.

Phil choked on a sound of need and turned his head so that he wasn't watching Clint. He fixed his eyes on the wall to one side of the large TV screen and let his body want Clint's touch.

Many hours later, just before he was finally allowed to let exhaustion pull him into sleep, Phil nuzzled Clint's neck and said, "You're good to me." He thought he managed to make it sound true.

Clint would know it was a lie, but Clint also liked the idea that Phil would lie to appease him. The words cost Phil nothing, but putting conviction in his voice required effort, not a lot but some. 

Tomorrow was likely be easier if Clint thought Phil was trying to please.

Clint accepted it, so Phil must have done well enough.


End file.
